


Want To Be On Top?

by ambivalens (madstoryteller999)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: ANTM made me do this, Dubious Consent, Harry is a no-name model, M/M, Oops, Shameless Smut, Smut, This is downright filth, but he has TALENT, the model au no one asked for, tom has been the cover of Italian Vogue 3 times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:21:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24167284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madstoryteller999/pseuds/ambivalens
Summary: “Tom Riddle. International super model? Cover of Italian Vogue three issues in a row?”“Oh,” Harry says. “Him.”Tom Riddle has been on the cover of Italian Vogue three times. Meanwhile, Harry's still trying to make a name for himself.One day, they end up on the same shoot.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 72
Kudos: 511





	Want To Be On Top?

“Did you drink water?”

“Yes.”

“What about food? Did you eat? Do you need me to grab something—”

“ _I’m fine,_ Hermione,” Harry says, voice strained as his head is tilted back beneath a firm comb.

“Right, good, just checking,” his best friend and agent of five years mutters, looking a bit wild. “It’s only—you know this is an amazing opportunity, Harry. _Nothing_ can go wrong.”

“And nothing will,” Luna says airily, patting more powder onto his face with delicate little flicks. He sneezes.

“Yes, that _is_ rather the hope,” Hermione responds, looking a little strained. “Just—make sure he’s ready to go at quarter to ten.” She storms off, tapping rapidly on her phone, and he watches her, the sour feeling in his stomach increasing.

“Are you okay, Harry?”

The eye pencil darkening his lower eyelid is closer to his eyeball than he could ever be comfortable with, so no. But they both know his discomfort is more than that.

“Is this about Ginny?”

Harry jolts violently in his seat. “Ginny?” he echoes, face reddening. “W-what about her?”

“Well,” Luna says patiently, “Things have been over with Cho for a while now—”

“There wasn’t anything to start,” Harry admits, a bit dourly.

“—and you were staring at Ginny the entire time she was getting her makeup done over there.”

He is momentarily trapped in a bout of horrified speechlessness. “I _was_?”

Luna smiles nonchalantly at him. “Yep.”

“Fuck,” he bursts out, reaching up unthinkingly to muss his hair. Before he can, she swiftly and masterfully smacks his hand away.

“I understand why you’re nervous,” she hums, tilting his face this way and that to examine it under the light. “What with Ron being on the shoot and—”

“Ron!” Harry cries loudly as he sees him approaching, shooting Luna a warning look. Unlike most of the other figures who have entered, his other best friend is dressed quite plainly: a simple plaid button down and worn jeans. He approaches more amiably than Hermione had, but Harry still fights to keep the panic off of his face.

A broad hand claps down on Harry’s shoulder. “How are you feeling?”

“Nervous,” he admits.

“Hm,” Ron offers, eyeing him knowingly. “I know this is bigger than you’re used to, but you know what I’ve always said. It was only a matter of time.”

Harry’s eyes drift skeptically to the mirror in front of him. He’s not exactly conventionally handsome. His body’s the wrong build—too lanky and angular—his runway walk tends more toward awkwardness than grace, and he’s been told more than once that his features can come off too sharp in a photo if he’s not careful.

Even after years at this, it’s _still_ hard for him to book jobs. When a go-see goes well enough for his portfolio to be considered, it’s hard to be certain whether _he_ is the cause of subsequent success—or (and this seems much more likely to Harry) the talent of some of the photographers he’s had the extraordinary luck to work with. And for that, well, he has Ron mostly to thank. And Hermione’s guidance. 

“A fan, are you?” Ron asks.

For a single, mortified second, Harry think it’s Ginny he’s talking about. But then—it’s the tone, laden with innuendo, that tells him he’s wrong. There’s no way Ron could have said it like that if he had been referring to his sister.

 _Not_ being her brother, Harry can’t really see why. Ginny has the prettiest brown eyes he’s ever seen. And from more than one Weasley summer game, he knows she would kick a soccer ball straight through his head if it meant getting it into the goal, which is unexpectedly—

“Tom Riddle?” his friend prompts, waving his hands. “International super model? Cover of Italian Vogue three issues in a row?”

“Oh,” Harry says. “Him.”

His instinctive reaction is incredulity, but—he supposes Ron isn’t being completely unreasonable. Riddle is…well, as the tabloids like to put it, “the fashion industry’s darling deviant.” From what Harry knows, the man has graced the covers of more unsavory magazines than any other model in recent history—and apparently Italian Vogue too.

Having never met him in person, he _should_ have no opinions. But something about the model has always given Harry a bad taste. It has a lot to with the fact that every female who has ever appeared on Tom Riddle’s arm has ended up a raving lunatic, screaming her obsession to any camera that will listen, while the man in question has smiled indifferently and delivered pitch-perfect answers to anyone who has ever asked _why_.

Something about it, all of it—Harry frowns—is off. But this is work, now, so he puts it out of his mind.

“Riddle,” he repeats. “No problem.”

“Right,” Ron says slowly, blue eyes boring into him. He leans back to rest against the makeup table. “So, I’m sure Hermione’s told you the schedule—” his face reddens a little as he says her name—“we’re shooting the spread in order. Malfoy’s going first. Then Riddle, then Ginny, then you. We finish with the three of you together.”

This is news to Harry. His eyes widen. “Me, Riddle, and—uh—Ginny? On the last page?”

“Yep,” Ron answers, looking a little distracted by something on his phone.

Harry hopes his voice doesn’t sound too strange. “Malfoy’s not in the group shot? He can’t be too happy about that.”

“He can suck it,” Ron shrugs, smiling a little too enthusiastically. “Even his dad can’t bribe these people.”

“About that—” Harry shifts, standing now. “How is it that _any_ of them heard of me?”

“Not sure, mate,” the other man says easily. “Could have been anything. As I said, it was only a matter of time.”

Harry’s not sure how many times he’s heard this now, because all the Weasleys have said it at some point. And—as deep in this industry as they are—some part of Harry realizes they can’t all be _totally_ delusional.

Point of fact: Fred and George had only recently debuted a line that had (well, it had most regular people scratching their heads) made them overnight successes. Mrs. Weasley had been a model herself. Ron, of course, had become a well-established photographer in recent years—steadily climbing the ranks to where he was now—so he couldn’t be completely wrong about these things. And Ginny, Harry thinks privately, is well on her way to becoming an extraordinary model too.

“Who’s the creative director?” He asks, mainly to save them from silence.

Ron’s face becomes a bit shifty. “About that.”

He has his full attention now. “Who?”

“Snape.”

Harry groans.

“Seriously?” His hands move in small, manic motions. “Snape _hates_ me. Like, genuinely—as though he wants me dead. I wouldn’t be surprised if he bludgeoned me to death as soon as I stepped foot on that set.”

“You and me both,” Ron grins apologetically.

As though summoned, the rail-thin man appears silently like a phantom at the door. He scours the scene before him with flared nostrils and eyes that adequately communicate his disdain for every soul contained within.

“Weasley,” he barks, black beetle eyes shooting poison as he finds his target at last. “ _Try_ to show some decorum for once and show up on time to your own shoot. Draco is waiting.”

Ron looks at Harry, aggrieved, and mouths ‘twat’ before turning away with a grunt of apology. Harry watches him leave glumly, ignoring the look of raw detestation Snape sends his way as he turns on his heel and disappears as well.

“Into clothes,” Luna says cheerily, ushering him through a side door into another large room filled with racks of garments.

Harry is abandoned halfway through the room with a fluttering wave. He’s not aware of the passage of time after that, just tries to make sure he doesn’t get stabbed by any pins as he is attacked by an army of hands. At the end of it, he’s more or less dressed in a suit. It’s _just_ a suit. Or so he tries to reassure himself. Like most of what is put on him, it’s much more expensive than anything he has personally owned.

“Harry.” He spins and finds Hermione trying to muscle her way through a cluster of wardrobe assistants near the door.

A huge gust of air escapes through his lips. Harry allows himself a quick, grounding nod—and then he follows her out of the room and toward the set.

As far as sets go, it’s definitely on the simple side: clean lines and soft textures in greys and blacks. He observes this as he enters, but his attention almost immediately drifts to Ginny. She’s dressed head to toe in a blood-red gown. Her hair is tied back, revealing her neck, and Harry has trouble swallowing.

“Need help keeping that jaw up?” He can hear the smile in Hermione’s voice, despite the nervousness on her face.

“Shut up.”

When Ginny finishes, she smiles beatifically in thanks to the crew members, elbows her brother in the gut, and nods politely at Snape (though he merely blinks snidely in response). She approaches Harry with a widening smile.

“Hey,” Harry manages and somehow sounds like a chain-smoker. She smells sweet, like jasmine.

“Snape’s in a bad mood,” she murmurs, eyes flashing devilishly. “Think you can get him to pull out his hair?”

He smiles helplessly in response, only to emit a small grunt as Hermione shoves him forward. Sending her a quick glare, he straightens and walks forward like a man approaching the guillotine.

“Snape,” he nods, not making eye contact.

“I have no idea what fraudulent methods you undertook to get here,” the older man said, voice silken, “But at the first sign of your usual ineptitude and incorrigible _laziness_ , be assured, you will be kicked off my set.”

 _Laziness_? Harry bites on his tongue, jaw tightening.

“Technically, it’s my set,” they hear Ron mutter in the background.

Snape ignores him. “Well?” An eyebrow is arched. “Get on with it.”

He’s painfully aware of all the eyes on him in the room: there are the crew members and Ron—of course—and Hermione and Ginny too. Harry can feel his limbs locking up, but he breathes through it, forces himself to pivot through the usual motions—

“No, no, _no_ Potter!” Snape yells, irate. “This isn’t modelling 101.”

Harry grits his teeth, because he knows the old bat is right. He needs to loosen up. It’s just him and the lens, he reminds himself. He, the camera, and Ron—who is his best friend, besides.

Drilling this into his mind, he begins moving again. He’s always been more adept at fluid motion than isolated posing, and slowly, he can start to feel the nerves slip away from his face. He feels safer, now. Comforted. The room is silent, and Harry can almost imagine it’s just the three of them.

“Better, Harry,” Ron encourages between sporadic clicks. “Looking much better now.”

He feels his mouth start to curve automatically, and he lets it. The fabric had felt a little heavy on him before, but now, it glides across his skin. It’s like moving through molasses, but in a pleasant way. The camera flashes so frequently, it seems to produce a steady beam of light—

“Boring.”

And Harry’s focus is cut to shreds, instantly.

His gaze flies to Snape, the source of the remark, but gets caught somehow on the man currently standing to his left, who must have just entered, and—

And Harry doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone so painfully good-looking in his life. Tall, standing past six feet, he towers over everyone in the room, even Ron. Dark brown-black hair—close at the sides and longer at the top—form a stark contrast to the paleness of the face below: a face that is unfairly devastating, features unusual only because Harry’s never seen anyone achieve this level of cold perfection.

Tom Riddle’s cheekbones could cut glass in real life, and this is shocking because he had always assumed they had been photoshopped. But it’s not just that: the piercing, paleness of his blue eyes is _real_ too, and so is the sharp cut of his jaw and the unexpected contradiction of plush lips.

He can feel Riddle’s gaze flick over him, detached and uncaring, sees his own inferiority confirmed, and the anger grows. He doubts Riddle—who’s built like the fucking _David_ , the archetype of male desirability—has ever been called boring in his life.

“Boring?” Ron echoes, sounding dumbstruck. His face begins to redden in anger at Snape. “Are you kidding me? Harry was killing it.”

This is a job, Harry reminds himself. And when that that doesn’t work, he reminds himself that Hermione will happily decapitate him if he cocks this up.

He pauses before he speaks, mainly to ensure his temper is well in check. “What’s…wrong?”

Snape’s nostrils flare. “You’re not a man’s man, Potter. You’re wearing the most traditional menswear that exists—” he sneers—“and you’re not working enough to make the clothes look like they belong on you. What did I say about _laziness_? ” 

Harry is well aware of what he looks like, thank you very much.

And… _fuck_. He had probably looked like an idiot, trying and failing to do everything someone like Riddle could pull off flawlessly: sex appeal, ‘alpha masculinity,’ and all that other bullshit. But that’s what clients want, that’s what they were always fucking ask for, and he’d been forcing himself to try, had tried to appear—

“Do anything, Potter,” Snape sneers. “Literally anything, just don’t _bore_ me. God, there’s nothing worse.”

The fury steadily increases. He feels electric. He can give not-boring. He can give Snape something he won’t know _what the hell_ to do with.

He doesn’t give a warning. He just jumps, feral and free—and he can feel it, the way the energy heats through his limbs and _burns_. Harry knows he’s snarling at the camera, but he doesn’t bother to stop.

Too wild. Too odd. He’s heard it all. But _this_ camera flashes (it _does,_ he realizes with some incredulity). And once the camera flashes, Harry is off, like a horse at the races. He twists, and he doesn’t care if he’s too quick, if the camera might not capture him. His muscles ache with the strain, but he _likes_ this pain. He’s aware of voices in the background—one of them possibly Snape’s—but whether they are disapproving or approving, he has no idea. Doesn’t _care_.

He doesn’t notice anything. That is until, somehow, gradually, he realizes that there is one gaze rapt on him, more intent than all the others. And this, suddenly, is impossible to ignore, because it is like a bonfire beside candles; the effect of being subject to it is _burning_.

Something has changed.

In the breath between his previous stillness and the consequent motion, Riddle’s gaze has changed, and it’s like seeing a statue come to life.

Blue eyes that had been cold, apathetic are suddenly _alive_ , his mouth—formerly relaxed—is slightly parted, as though frozen perpetually in the act of inhalation. There’s something dark and…almost hungry in his features, something previously well-hidden that lurks now, just beneath the surface, so close. And Harry freezes at the sight of it, almost-paralyzed.

But not paralyzed. He’s not conscious of it—controls none of it—but under this gaze, he shifts, just slightly: a hand curls around his own neck as he tosses his head back, meeker than before, softer than before. He looks forward through his lashes now, and the light that accompanies the motion seems harsher now, somehow more abrasive.

It takes him a while to understand what the cessation of flashing means.

“We’ve got it.”

And then, like a puppet whose strings have been cut, Harry’s limbs drop, he straightens, blinking rapidly as though having woken from sleep. Awareness is like a cube of ice against the warmest part of his throat. The way Ron, Hermione, the crew members are staring at him—even Snape is _just_ staring, uncharacteristically silent, and it’s horrible.

It isn’t even the end.

“Riddle, Weasley.” He wonders if he’s imagining it, but Snape’s voice seems different than before. Quieter.

Still, Harry can do nothing more than close his eyes in mortification.

After a long silence, the older man speaks again.

“We’ll start off with the generic narrative, because it’s something apparently our client wants to see,” Snape announces, some of the usual disparagement slowly slipping back in. “Riddle and Potter, you’re both competing over Weasley’s ‘affections’—”

Harry’s face, despite his mortification, turns toward Ginny at the mention of her name, his stomach swooping at her proximity. She must feel his gaze, because she turns too, twisting like a creeper to meet him. Her eyes glitter—absent of the pity and disappointment he had expected—and Harry’s face warms.

The click of the shutter echoes in the quiet room, along with a flash of blinding light, and that’s when he realizes that they’ve started.

“Riddle,” Harry hears Snape say stiffly. “The client wants something…softer.”

Somehow, he had been oblivious to it before. Now that Snape has conjured his name, however, he can _feel_ Riddle, can feel the blazing heat of a third body even though he’s on the other side of Ginny.

“Of course,” that voice emerges once again, unfailingly posh and refined. Without warning, Harry feels a hand—long-fingered and assured—curl around his neck, exactly where his own hand had been minutes ago.

The sensation is alarming, like being branded by unnatural heat, and Harry’s eyes widen as his head jerks to the left. _Why—_?

But the camera flashes, and Riddle’s expression is a study in adoration as he looks below Harry’s line of sight to Ginny. The effect of a slight curve in his lips—so slight—is tremendous. Catastrophic. He hears Ginny’s breath catch, the wisps of her hair brushing Harry’s cheek, and jealousy unwinds in him.

“This looks amazing—”

“Shut up,” Snape snaps at Ron, unblinking. But his own subsequent praise, considering it’s Snape, is prolific. “Competent.”

A few more snaps and minute adjustments. Ron signals to them to move.

Eagerly, Harry starts to pull away. There’s a moment of sharp, almost painful resistance…and only then, after this point is made, does Riddle’s hand relinquish him with seeming, deliberate slowness.

Harry’s used to being hazed—models, in his experience, are generally a petty breed. But he honestly didn’t believe he’d be at risk around Riddle, being very much a bottom-feeder in comparison.

Rather than him, he reasons slowly, frowning, this must have to do with Ginny.

That’s the only other explanation for Riddle’s animosity, the only possible way he could register as a threat—because Ginny has always been overwhelmingly, generously nice to Harry, which has led more than one of her past boyfriends to misunderstand.

Riddle, Harry concludes with a glower, likes Ginny too.

It’s both hateful and hardly surprising. Anyone with a disposition of being attracted to females notices Ginny when she walks in a room, notices that throaty, carefree laugh, the vitality in her eyes. It’s Harry’s luck that Riddle is… _Riddle_ and Harry is just Harry.

Even looking at her now threatens to derail his thoughts. There’s a light red in her cheeks as she stretches her long body along the chaise lounge, peering up at the both of them. The red is an unnerving contrast against the leather, dripping over the surface like blood, and he finds himself staring.

“Riddle, behind her head,” Snape instructs. “Potter, at the foot of the lounge, on the ground.”

 _Job_ , he remembers. If only for Hermione’s pleas and Ron’s faith in him.

Harry scowls, shifts to move obligingly—

—and is stopped as two hands, out of sight of anyone else thanks to the chaise lounge, curl around his waist, keeping in him place.

He can feel Snape glaring at him, still waiting for him to move, and Harry considers saying something, but…

No. This is a game of chicken, and it won’t be _Harry_ tattling to Snape and expecting sympathy, because he certainly won’t get any. Nostrils flaring, he prepares to rip himself out of Riddle’s grip—

Riddle lets go.

Harry begins to relax, muscles loosening minutely. Only, then, Riddle comes too close, just as he’s about too console himself that two hours from now he’ll be far away from here, drowning his sorrows (and repressed anger) in…well, not alcohol, more likely, treacle tart, but Harry—

He _feels_ something.

It’s gone in a second, but the impression left behind is indelible. For one second, against his arse, he had felt—

He blinks. Then blinks again.

No, no, he correct furiously. It couldn’t _be_.

“Potter,” Snape snaps, “get that gormless look off your face—” On auto-pilot, Harry hastily rearranges his features—"No. _No_ , you idiot boy, don’t _smile_. This isn’t your school photo, what the hell is wrong with you?”

“Should we try another arrangement?” Tom suggests, tone perfectly amicable.

“Yes,” the black-haired man decides irately. “Move, all of you. I can’t look at this for a second longer, it’s ruined for me.”

But Harry doesn’t know if he’s capable of moving. He’s still reeling from shock. His eyes dart to the side, landing on Riddle, who looks— Actually, he perfectly normal, as cool and unruffled as ever.

…He must have imagined it. It’s the only possible explanation. He has a sick mind that is distorting his perception of reality in truly masochistic ways.

In a bizarre zombie-state, Harry shuffles to the other end of the chaise lounge. Sit down. He should sit down, he thinks. He collapses like a broken rag-doll onto the plush surface. He feels Ginny rearrange herself at the opposite end. Her hand smoothes her dress, then rests lightly on Harry’s thigh. Her gaze, however, is directed away from him entirely, looking off to some point unknown to both the camera and Harry.

It’s almost enough to restore him to normalcy: the burst of nervousness and excitement because of the way her hand is so soft on the muscle above his knee, because of the way she looks so otherworldly like this, like something from a book.

But then he feels another body settle behind him, and even though the back of the chaise lounge is a thick barrier between them, it clearly proves to be not enough.

A hand settles on his shoulder. And because Riddle’s hand is large, his fingers reach lower on his chest, beyond the expanse of suit jacket. Odd, he processes, disturbed that Riddle’s fingers are still moving even though the base of his palm is stationary. Not obviously, but minute shifts, subtly…like they’re searching for something. He shifts away, but that ends up being the wrong decision, so wrong, which he realizes a second later when one finger shifts too, and in so doing, flicks—

Harry’s crotch arches off the chaise.

It takes him a moment to realize what’s happened. When he manages to do something more than blink, horror—enormous, pure horror—sets in.

It’s a small movement, just small enough to look like a meaningless adjustment to other observers, but Harry is mortified.

What. The. _Fuck?_

Looking down in accusation, he sees that pale, perfect nail positioned just to the right of his nipple, innocuous like it hadn’t just caused—

Livid, Harry grits his teeth and tries to move quickly from his end of the couch. But the hand is quicker, maneuvering with lightning efficiency. When he tries to move again, the fingers tighten punishingly, the nub of Harry’s nipple between them.

A small, strangled noise escapes from between his teeth. He tries to smother it. Tries to pretend it’s simply _not happening_.

It’s torturous. Pleasure zings straight to his cock, quickly fattening in his trousers. Harry’s head falls back and he gazes blearily in the direction of the camera, oblivious to the flashing that lights the room every now and then, and the hand remains there.

It’s all he’s capable of, his nipple caught delicately between the base of two, elegant fingers.

Out of some instinct of self-preservation, he changes his position slightly (because he can’t even muster the strength to move more than that) to cross his legs.

Snape’s eyebrow raises at first, but then he gestures at Ginny to move as well. The girl leans her back against his side, the soft feathery feeling of her hair brushing against his chin, but Harry can’t even begin to appreciate it, because—

There’s a cruel thumb circling lazily around his painfully tight nipple, and the slit at the tip of his penis is twitching, leaking precum.

“This is good,” Ron calls out, “really good.”

“Indeed,” Snape says, almost inaudible.

Harry rips himself away. He forces his upper body forward, his elbows settling onto his thighs, because he can’t— He _can’t_. His muscles are clenched in exquisite restraint, to hold himself back— 

The hand settles again on his shoulder again; before he can react, before he can _try_ to kill Riddle, though, the hand slides down. Harry doesn’t have to look to know that his perfect face is probably angled perfectly toward the camera, expression utterly perfect too.

Harry’s mouth parts as fingers curl around the flesh of his arse, unabashed like it belongs to Riddle himself. The pads of his fingers, though they press into the thin material of his trousers, feel like they’re touching skin directly.

The part of his brain that is still functioning wonders—well, wonders what the _hell_ Riddle is doing, because this is too far, beyond too far. But also: for twenty two years, Harry has lived a very straight, very _heterosexual_ existence, without ever a stray thought for a man. He’s in the modeling industry, he’s seen uncountable numbers of naked male bodies thanks to the hasty changes required of runway work, and he isn’t conscious of why he would have repressed any such inclinations. He has friends who like the same sex, and it hasn’t ever caused him to blink twice or wonder, and—

And here he is, liquid drooling steadily from his cock—plump and painfully hard in his pants—but it’s worse because, in this position, it’s trickling _back_ , down his arse to—

Right here, in front of all these oblivious people.

A sole finger presses savagely and unerringly down on where his flesh dips in and instead of out— _there_ , where he’s become sloppily, messily wet. And Harry throws his head back, absolutely oblivious to even the notion of self-consciousness now.

A hands card roughly through his hair, pulling just-painfully on the strands.

“Provocative,” he hears someone comment in the background, tone clinical, “subverting the clichés as always, Riddle—”

Harry should reach up now to wrap his hands around the man’s neck, but he feels utterly weak, so much so that all he can do is glare, and his glare is both an expression of anger, incomprehension, and demand.

Breath disrupts the curls above his ear. He hears a voice, smooth as sin, say silkily—just for him to hear—“You’re going to look glorious bouncing on my cock.”

And, _yes_ , Harry is fucking horny, but he’d have to be six feet under to take a remark like that without responding.

“Get off,” he hisses, conscious of Ginny resting against him, so he does it _quietly_ , his head turning the opposite way. “Get your hands off me.”

“Why?” The question is asked almost impetuously.

“You’re not fucking me.”

“Oh, you’ll be doing the fucking,” Riddle whispers, voice soft. His gaze is dangerous, like a hot touch.

Air expels from Harry in a sharp, violent burst.

“I’ll treat this hole—” he punctuates the remark with a rough, crass press _in_ that has Harry’s mouth parting helplessly—“like it’s mine, just to keep my cock warm. I’ll be so still it will drive you mad,” the man promises, voice dark. “You won’t last more than a minute.”

“Stop,” Harry commands, voice a soundless rasp.

“You’re going to beg me, Harry Potter,” Riddle murmurs. “And then you’re going to slide _yourself_ up and down, fucking yourself shamelessly on my cock, until you make a filthy, gasping mess of yourself.”

His breath is hot against Harry’s ear, as he whispers, “And like that camera there, I’m going to _watch_.”

He loses control. There’s no other way to describe it. Because if Harry had had even a fraction of his usual capabilities for rational decision-making, he would not do what he does now. Which is—

He comes. Ludicrously, from these _words._

And gloriously. The kind he’s never achieved on his own or with any other of a handful of partners. His cock jerks with hearty violence beneath his crossed legs, and the cum spurts out, white-hot, and his hips pumps forward despite his every effort to restrain them, and Harry is _coming,_ he’s _coming_ with Riddle’s finger thrusting greedily into him even through his pants _,_ and no one knows, god no one knows.

And the camera flashes the entire while.

When it’s over, Harry gasps for breath, his head tilted back against the lounge chair.

“Good,” Snape calls out. “That’s a wrap.”

Fuck his modelling aspirations. He'll deal with Hermione's anger and Snape's too.

_He's going to murder Tom Riddle even if it's the last thing he does._

* * *

**Author's Note:**

This is *cough* considerably different from my other fics. It's _supposed_ to be a one-shot but... well, who knows. I haven't exactly NOT been playing around with the idea of making a more 'serious'/lengthy fic with the same concept potentially... tbh, though, there's also a good chance I might take this down after a little. I kind of mostly posted to see...what happened... Either way, let me know what you think! Any and all comments are welcome :)

Hope everyone's staying as safe and healthy as possible! <3


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